We'll be lucky if we ever see the sun
by kylermalloy
Summary: A resurrected Jack deals with the aftermath of being murdered by the Creator Himself. There are some side effects that a nephilim could never anticipate.


**It has been a WHILE since I've written anything! But I have had this idea in my head ever since the bts photos of Jack with sunglasses showed up. I know this isn't how season 15 is going to go, but my SamJack heart can dream, right? And I can write :)**

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There was a great divide in Jack's little, tumultuous life. There was Before, and there was now.

It was very easy to tell the difference—Before, he could see. Now, he couldn't.

Life was a little emptier now.

Before, Jack hadn't ever thought much about being blind. He'd seen movies and TV shows with blind characters, though.

He could remember seeing blind characters on TV who were psychic—who could read a person's thoughts or feelings just by a touch, or just by being in the same room. He'd even seen a few episodes of Daredevil, of Matt Murdock fighting bad guys with his heightened hearing and senses.

Jack's senses didn't feel heightened. Sounds weren't louder than Before. He couldn't tell if someone was in the room with him unless they spoke to him. When he ran his fingers over the keyboard of his computer, brushing the slightly raised letters on each key, they all felt the same.

He wasn't psychic. He wasn't a superhero. He was just a blind kid.

Coming back had been confusing, to say the least. The woman in the long coat had sent him back with only a mysterious "I'll be in touch." The black world had faded out of sight, and he'd woken up…in more blackness than before.

The first few days were hard. (They weren't the hardest.) The guilt and the emptiness from Before had been replaced with panic and an overwhelming sense of helplessness—he was alive, but powerless. And _blind._

_I can't see,_ he'd nearly sobbed. _I can't see!_ One of them—Sam, he'd finally deduced, from the long hairs brushing his forehead and the murmured reassurances—had held Jack to his chest until he could breathe normally.

Jack had clung tightly to Sam's shirt, the one thing grounding him to this dark world he was lost in.

It was almost like he was still dead.

Cas had tried to heal him. So many times, he'd tried. Nothing had worked. The only thing Castiel had been able to mend was the charred, blackened skin around his empty eye sockets. That way, Jack wouldn't attract any strange looks if he went out.

Not that he would notice. He couldn't see anyone. Would never see anyone ever again.

Sam had somehow gotten him a pair of glass eyes. They sat uselessly on his face, giving focus to his empty stare. Although Sam assured him they looked genuine, Jack wasn't sure to believe that. What was the point of looking normal? He'd never be normal again.

They'd even given him a cane, a long stick he could use to feel the ground in front of him. So he could go places, Sam explained.

Jack could have laughed. He hadn't gone anywhere since coming back. He'd barely left his room in the bunker. Just going to the kitchen was hard enough. He bumped into walls and doors on the way, and he hadn't quite got ahold of the fridge organizing system Sam had made for his food.

It was easier to stay in his room. Easier to deal with the hunger and loneliness, even with his heightened need for food and human company—his grace had been depleted once again. (Jack supposed that no one except perhaps the Almighty Murderer himself could restore burned-out grace.)

There wasn't much _living_ in this coming-back-to-life thing.

At least it didn't hurt. None of it hurt, not anymore. Jack could remember it. The blinding, mind-numbing pain of his eyes burning, burning.

Now that he was back, the pain wasn't there anymore. His head didn't hurt—his eyes were just _gone._

Somehow, too, in dying and coming back, the pain in his chest from Before—the guilt for killing Mary, for exploding the bunker—had all melted away.

He still didn't know if he was soulless. Had the coat lady given him a new, untarnished soul? Or had she just shoved his mind back into the empty shell of Before?

Or maybe not so empty. He couldn't tell.

Maybe it was the Winchesters absolving him. Maybe their willingness to look past what he'd done, to focus on the problems of now, helped him to move forward too.

How much of that emptiness he'd felt before had just been...loneliness? The isolation from his family? The dooming fear that no one would love or forgive him or take him back?

He was consumed by a different emptiness now. The yawning void that stretched in front of him, the never-ending blackness. The permanent struggle of feeling his way around in the dark.

It was like the lights in the bunker had been turned off, and he could never turn them back on.

He preferred the familiar space of his room, the security of his mattress. Where he could sit for hours without disturbing anyone or needing help. Where he could pace the room, counting his steps to avoid hitting walls. Where the faint whispers of wind across the doorway became a familiar song, the bunker breathing at him like a large, friendly creature.

He hardly dared venture outside his four walls. The bunker hallways stretched out unknowably long and mysterious. He hated asking for help—he still wasn't sure how Dean felt about him, since Jack couldn't see his face anymore and he'd barely said two words to Jack since his return.

Sam was always ready to help Jack with no compunction, chauffeuring him around the kitchen, around the bathroom—everything short of giving Jack baths like a baby. Jack was loath to ask for anything more.

He didn't know how to entertain himself. Listening to _Clone Wars_ play on his laptop wasn't nearly as entertaining without the accompanying picture. He couldn't read anymore, or play games on his phone. He could barely work a few simple commands on his computer, and walking anywhere outside was out of the question.

Most times he just ended up lying still. Letting the crushing helplessness and existential loneliness flood him. Feeling the bed and the room twirl around him in the knowledge that he'd angered _God_. That was worse than disappointing his own father—Lucifer hadn't been worth it, anyway. No, now the being who'd created the _universe_ wanted him dead. Had _killed_ him, even. Burned out his eyes in a flash of white-blue light.

Sometimes he'd imagine that moment again. The fire, the pain. Grace pouring nuclear out of his face while he screamed without sound.

It was the closest he'd get to seeing colors again.

Ironic. Reliving his death made him feel the most alive.

"Jack?"

He shot up into a sitting position, looking around uselessly for the owner of the voice. It was Sam, he _knew_ it, but he wanted some proof. Some confirmation, some whiff of Sam-smell, the taste of the air particles on his tongue. (The air used to taste electric, Before. Crackling on his lips, at the back of his throat, like it was his to command. Now it all tasted like nothing. Stale sameness.)

He wanted to _see_ Sam. And he never would again.

"You okay, buddy?"

Jack was already forming the words before Sam finished his question. Before he could even think about whether or not his answer was true. "I'm fine."

(He'd never answered any differently. Not on the fourth night, when he'd realized his eye sockets couldn't produce tears anymore. Not when he'd slipped in the shower and felt warm blood spill from his knee. Not even the night when Sam had found him screaming into his pillow. His answer was always _I'm fine._)

Soft steps shuffled across the room, then Jack's mattress creaked and shifted as Sam sat down next to him.

Jack hated that. Hearing sounds and recognizing them, but not being able to pinpoint the source—or exactly what was going on. Some monster could be forcing Sam to walk in and shoot him, and Jack would be none the wiser.

He flinched as a hand fell onto his shoulder without warning and gripped.

"You don't have to do that, you know."

"Do…what?" Jack searched helplessly to find Sam's face, to meet his eyes, see that ever-present gentleness. He was starting to forget what it looked like.

"Lie. Pretend you're fine."

"But…I am." Jack's brow wrinkled in confusion. He _was_ fine. He wasn't hurt. He wasn't ever in pain. He wasn't even in any danger.

The rest he could deal with on his own—after all, there was nothing Sam could do about it. Why bother him with the troubles of a blind, former nephilim kid?

"No, you're n—" Sam broke off abruptly, interrupting himself to huff a laugh that, even without sight, Jack could tell was humorless.

Jack bowed his head in shame. He'd upset Sam. Sam was disappointed in him. He shrank into himself, shoulders curling together as he wished he could disappear. He missed his wings.

Sam's hand hadn't left Jack's shoulder. Now his other hand took Jack's other arm, steering him gently to turn around on the mattress. To face Sam.

(Neither one of them wanted to stop pretending eye contact was necessary.)

"Lo—listen, Jack."

As much as Jack wanted to shrug off Sam's gentle, caring hands, he couldn't bring himself to. That touch, that soft, reassuring squeeze, was one of the only things left to bring Jack peace. Without peace, he would become untethered and fly off the face of this earth. Again.

"I know you get tired of hearing this, but you're not alone. You never are. We want to help you, Jack. Really, we do. But we also want to…you know, give you space. You're not a baby—we don't want to crowd you. If you need something we're not giving you, you have to ask. None of us can read minds, you know."

Jack wasn't very old, but his newfound cynicism seemed to age him at least five decades.

Never before had he been _more_ alone. Even when he'd woken from death in a vast plain of nothingness, he'd had company—albeit frightening, eldritch company. Company he could see.

Nothing on this earth, not the threads of the blanket underneath him, not the tenor of Sam's voice nor the softness of his hand could be as real as that anymore.

_Knowing_ his family was there to help him wasn't the same as _believing_ in it. He couldn't _see_. How could he completely trust what he couldn't see?

"Hey." Sam's hands jostled his shoulders. "Talk to me."

Jack wanted to find the perfect words. The words that would make Sam go away, make him stop worrying. Sam was terrible at lettings things go, at accepting there were some troubles he couldn't fix.

But at the same time, more than anything, Jack longed for Sam to rub his hands together as if to say, _down to business!_ and find that miracle solution. End this nightmare for Jack and open his eyes.

"I…I…" Jack stuttered. "I can't."

"Yes, you can. I've been there. Thinking no one in the world could understand what I was going through. Thinking I had to do everything by myself."

"You haven't been _blind_, though," Jack nearly snapped. Sam's patience, his constant unwavering calm was getting on his nerves. Whatever Sam had gone through, it wasn't this. He couldn't just act normal and tackle the problem like Sam did whenever something was wrong.

"Well, not…" Sam huffed out another quiet laugh, this time with a tad more amusement infused. "No permanently. Did I ever tell you about the time a witch blinded me?"

Jack twitched in surprise. "No."

"It was years ago now, before you were born. We hadn't met Rowena, and she definitely wouldn't have helped us.

"Anyway, we caught a witch hexing people in Michigan. Dean got her, but not before she got me with a spell. There was no countercurse, no undoing it. I just had to wait until it wore off. So for about three days, I couldn't see."

Jack turned his body fully toward Sam, leaning intently in so as to not miss a word.

"It was…" Sam exhaled. "It was rough. I'd been having some…other problems, not being able to tell what was real. Hearing voices and seeing…things. Being blind was just…it wasn't good."

Jack listened now with bated breath. No matter what Sam was describing, be it good or bad, he _loved_ listening to Sam talk about himself. Sam was so much older, had been through so much. Hearing his experiences made Jack feel a little less alone.

"How…how did you get through it?"

Sam's reply was simple and definitive. "Dean."

"He helped you."

"Yeah." Sam's tone grew softer, more thoughtful. Jack imagined him staring off into the distance like he sometimes did. "He let me know I wasn't alone. That he was there to help me through it."

Not alone.

"Because it's hard, isn't it? You know. Being all alone in the dark. Feels like you're permanently lost, huh."

"Yeah," Jack whispered through a dry mouth.

"Even when he talked to me, I couldn't be sure he was real. Sometimes I'd hear voices that'd turn out to just be in my head. So he started this thing where he'd take my hand and put it over his heart. So I could feel it beating. That helped, more than anything."

A lump was forming in Jack's throat. One of his hands lifted instinctively. Reaching. Searching.

Sam's hand closed around his. Guided it to where he knew Jack wanted to go.

First Jack felt just the fabric of Sam's shirt beneath his fingers. He stilled his hand. Pressed his palm flatter.

Then he felt it. A gentle, steady _thump-thump_ against his skin.

This was something real. Something he could trust. Something he could feel and know that Sam was _here_, that he was gloriously, _gloriously_ alive.

And so was Jack.

He breathed in deep, knowing Sam could hear the unmistakable quiver. His fingers clenched in a fist around Sam's shirt. He bowed his head to hide tears that would never come.

"That help?"

Jack nodded, throat thick with bunched up emotion. Sam's heartbeat surged through his fingers, sharp and sure and electrifying.

This was the spark. This was the life he'd been missing. Far more than food or shelter or help moving around—_this_ was what Jack needed.

"I'm here," Sam repeated. "I'm here for you, Jack. And I'm not going anywhere."

One of Sam's large, warm hands closed around Jack's, holding it against Sam's chest.

Not alone. _Not _alone. Jack wasn't alone. Whatever was going on outside the walls of that bunker, whatever the coat lady had in store for him, even whatever Dean thought of him—Sam was not going to leave Jack alone in the dark.

Jack's own heartbeat surged forth with more vigor and purpose since he'd gasped back to life in that graveyard. Alive. Vibrant.

He still had some life to live. There was still meaning to be had in this black void.

There was one more thing Jack remembered from blind characters on TV—one thing he wanted to try.

He lifted both hands uncertainly, trailing up Sam's shirt, his neck, his face, until he could lay his palms on Sam's cheeks. Anchoring himself to the feel of Sam's stubbled jaw, the movement of his mouth, the shape of his bones under skin.

It was a different view of Sam's face than Jack had had Before, that was for sure.

Sam's cheeks pushed up in what could only be a smile. "Does that help, too?"

"Yeah," Jack breathed. "Yeah."

…

Wind tore through Jack's hair. Licked at his face. He put one hand up, outside, until he could feel air rushing past him.

"You good?" Sam's voice asked him. A large hand closed around his shoulder.

They were in the Impala. Driving down a road who-knows-where with the windows down.

It was the first time Jack had been outside in weeks. He'd clung to Sam's hand every step of the way to the car, practically forgetting about the long cane in his other hand. It was Sam's hand, his gentle guidance and spoken warnings that he wanted.

Jack couldn't see the road before them. He'd only ever driven the one time, before his first death. (That was over now.) He had no idea how fast Sam was driving, where they were going, or even what the weather was like outside.

But he felt the wind rushing past him. He breathed in the fresh air. Drank in the light that wasn't from a fluorescent bulb.

It almost hurt. The pressure bending his fingers, the wind chapping at his skin, teetered on the brink of pain. Not enough to make him stop. But enough to make him feel.

This was what being alive was.

Sam was still waiting on Jack's answer. And this time, he didn't reply by rote. "Yeah. I'm good."

_Thanks to you._

Jack wondered if anyone was watching from above. Or—specifically one someone. Jack hoped the one who killed him could see. See him laugh and scream and curse. See him throb and bend and break and mend. See him put his fingers on a beating heart to restart his own pulse. See him reach out to the people in his family and choose every day to keep going.

Just like Sam.

From now on, living was an act of defiance**.**

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**Thank you for reading! Let me know what you think - comments feed my SOUL. I'm on tumblr too, hop over and say hi!**


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